


Hold Me Tighter (And Leave the Umbrella Next Time.)

by TheOneWithTheBlue



Category: The Used
Genre: Also a doctor, Bert is a good nurse, I do not know how hospitals work, Jepha is tired of taking care of these idiots, M/M, Quinn needs comfort, Sick Character, Sick baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneWithTheBlue/pseuds/TheOneWithTheBlue
Summary: Quinn is sick-sick. Bert is sick of him being a drama queen bitch.Until he hears the word 'hospital'.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sickness/Comfort. Warning: Severe lack of medical knowledge.  
> Feedback encouraged.

A bad experience often served to teach a lesson.

Did you burn your hand taking the pizza from the oven? You would never again skip using oven mitts because the sight of your blistering, reddened skin was just that bit more compelling than the oozing, mouth-watering pile of cheese melting atop the sauce, and your palm resembled the pizza crust; slightly burned, and most people wouldn't lick it without asking permission. Most. Bert usually licked first, asked questions later, but there was only one Bert McCracken in the world and so many people didn't have that particular problem.

Lessons were crucial. They were also difficult to learn when you were busy focusing on keeping your organs contained within your body as you spewed into the bucket for the third time that day.

Quinn could only focus on two things as he found himself in that situation; Why they were **only** **allowed to piss** in the toilet and if Bert would ever **shut his mouth** because the screeching from the front of the bus would offend a pterodactyl. He would have thought his situation was his own fault if he could remember the monstrous amount of alcohol he had forced into his system the night before. The guitarist would also smack himself for thinking that if he could remember it was Bert who stole his umbrella to torment Jepha with, which caused the bassist to drag the squirming McCracken back to the bus early, and left Quinn walking alone in the pissing rain that came minutes after he left the club. Branden had probably fucking died or something, Quinn didn't know where the guy was.

"I can't eat my _fuckin'_ cereal with all your hurling noises in my brain, Quinn!" called Bert from the front of the bus, voice as full of indignation as could be when it was muffled by CocoPops.

Quinn tried to think of a clever retort but had to stop partway through the thought process when last nights spring rolls tried to spill out of his mouth instead. This is it, thought Quinn, I am never drinking again. His oesophagus filled with stomach acid as divine punishment for lying so boldly to the universe.

"Fuck, Allman, how much did you drink last night?"

"He's a lightweight!" hollered Bert, most likely spraying chewed up cereal everywhere, his words followed by an outcry of disgust from Branden that confirmed there were CocoPops casualties.

Quinn whined pitifully at the voice that pierced his foggy brain, spitting up a mouthful of bile into the bucket.

"Bert, shut your mouth. That much, right." Jepha gently pried the stinking container away from Quinn. "Lay down, I'll get you some ginger tea."

The guitarist glared up at him with betrayal in his eyes. First, he was hungover, then he puked his guts out, then Jepha wanted to punish him with tea?

"It'll settle your stomach, asshole." Quinn couldn't find the strength to protest as he was pushed (lightly) into his bunk again and refused to admit it when the tea actually helped. The chance for a day off was rare, and he would have preferred not to spend it dying in bed, but one day of hangover recovery wouldn't kill him.

He lay back moments after the tea put a stop to the frat party going on in his stomach, and fell asleep to the sounds of Bert and the apparently still living Branden laughing over what a little pussy Quinn was being. Bastards.

******************************************************************

Quinn woke sometime later to a bunk that smelled of cum, vomit, and broccoli. He wondered how long it would take for that last one to fade, but remembered it was basically baiting Bert to come sleep beside him and dismissed the thought immediately.

He could feel the sweat soaked into his t-shirt, and became aware of just how hot he was, kicking off the blankets. His legs shook and protested the small effort, hands unsteady even as Quinn struggled his way out of his top layer of clothing. The bus was eerily quiet apart from the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the engine. Everyone was asleep or had been murdered, then. God, he needed a glass of water to get the taste of mucus and death out of his mouth.

Getting out of his bunk was easy, but the struggle came when Quinn tried to stand. The world faded away into grey static, slumping to his knees before he could stop himself and hitting the ground with a quiet groan.

"Quinn?"

 _Go away_ , he thought as he slid to lay down on the ground, _leave me here to die_. A calloused hand brushed his forehead, hair sticking to it with sweat, then pressed against his neck. His pulse beat hard and fast against it, and whoever it was that leant over him took in a sharp breath. They checked his temperature again and began urging him to lift his head. The thought of moving seemed about as appealing as shoving a glass bottle directly up his ass.

"Come on, come on, cooperate with me, you cunt," the voice insisted, pulling and prodding until they could check Quinns eyes. "Look at me. Hey, can you do that?"

Quinn could hardly pay attention, anything longer than three words and his brain began to shut down. His vision was blurred, shaking softly, and growing limp in the arms of his mystery annoyance as the will to stay awake drained from him.

"... Shit." Quinn found himself laying on the ground again, and heard the hurried footsteps towards the driver's seat. Muffled voices, spiked with concern, were all he could make out. The footsteps returned, voice loud enough to send a spike of pain through his skull.

"We're stopping off at the hospital, wake the fuck up, everybody." Hospital? He tried to form the words to protest, to say he was fine, but the blond had his hands full keeping his stomach contents under control as he was lifted up and manhandled to the sofa. "Lay down. You should have said you were this sick earlier, Quinn, fuck..."

In Quinn's defence, his mouth had been occupied with half digested food on a mission to splash the inside of a bucket, so he hadn't been able to think about much beyond how nice immediate euthanization sounded.

The other inhabitants of the bus began to stir, an equal mix of confusion, exhaustion, and irritation permeating the atmosphere. A little bit of _'You interrupted my wet dream'_ too, but that was mostly Branden, so nobody cared too much about it. Bert was among the first to tumble (quite literally) from his bunk, storming through to the front area of the bus as Quinn was retreating into a ball of questionable hair and misery.

"What the fuck?" He groused, reaching down to adjust his balls. "What's wrong?"

Too loud. They were all so fucking loud. No wonder Mariah Carey only waited around them long enough for two pictures if this was how goddamn grating they all were. Quinn by then had curled in on himself, shaking like a leaf, if leaves were pale, skinny, and soaked in perspiration. There was a second exchange of muffled voices, Quinn doing all he could to block out the sounds, before smooth hands were grasping his chin to lift his head.

"Such a goddamn _pussy_ , Quinnifer, are you really this dedicated to being a bitch that-" Bert cut himself off before he could finish the sentence as he gazed upon his guitarist. His eyes were glazed and scarily vacant, no strength to hold his own head up. His skin was burning to touch, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. Quinn was sick. He was  _sick_ sick. "Fuck."

With newfound care, Bert lowered Quinn down again, placing himself beside the guitarist to act as a slightly bonier, much worse smelling pillow. It was almost comical how he glared and hissed in irritation at the others for making half the noise he was just moments earlier.

"Quinn, Quinny, Quinnifer, little baby..." He cooed, fingers stroking through the blond's hair, along his back, tugging him into a safe position laying on top of the singer. "I didn't know you were this bad, poor baby Quinny, I got you." 

He didn't move a muscle, holding the quivering blond in his arms, murmuring soft comforts, and feeding him a mug of some sort of magical healing tea or whatever the fuck Jepha called it. The bus arrived at the hospital, and Bert pressed a kiss to Quinn's cheek as they pulled in.

"You'll be fine, Quinny, you'll be okay. I got you, little baby."

 


	2. Chapter 2

The trip to the hospital was eventful, to say the least. At first, they were turned away and given directions to rehab as the receptionist assumed Quinn was drugged up to the eyeballs. Bert stood forward as Quinn's main defender, insisting, demanding, and threatening emails to superiors should his bandmate suffer as a result of the piss poor excuse for a health system.

They waited for hours, Bert's small frame doing what it could to cradle the lanky blond in his arms, sacrificing his own comfort for the little sigh of gratitude that left Quinn's lips.  _He's getting better if I have to smack the sickness out of him,_ thought Bert, wondering if it would be hard to cook up some veggie broth to soothe the ill man to sleep once they got out of there. It couldn't be that difficult, right? The singer had never really cooked before, but he thought he could give it a whirl, just for Quinn. Especially for Quinn.

The appearance of a doctor brought relief to the group hovering nervously in the waiting room. McCracken had major issues with the thought of leaving Quinn's side, and it took serious convincing from Jepha to let them take Quinn for examination.

_Alright,_ the singer thought,  _if I can't be there, I can be ready for when they let him back out._

_******************************************_

The guitarist was let go with a prescription in hand, back into the arms of a concerned little man toting around a shopping bag, and mercifully allowed to rest in his bunk again. With Quinn sent off to sleep by a soft lullaby and a decent dose of medication, Bert took over the microwave to start stage one of his 'Get Quinn Healthy' plan.

He was gonna make him okay again.

******************************************

Bert had underestimated how hard it was to cook on a tour bus when he was running on two hours sleep.

"I made you something, Quinny baby, drink up!"

"Ngh?"

"Yeah, it's fucking veggie water. It'll help you get better." His brow was furrowed with his intense focus, watching as he helped Quinn take a sip.

It was definitely a coincidence when the guitarist puked it out. And the second batch a few hours later.

The third batch of soup was the winner. Quinn leaned against Bert on the sofa, wrapped in blankets like a gigantic newborn baby, and reluctantly slurped the spoonful of toxic green sludge the lead singer placed against his lips.

"That's it, baby, that's good," Bert assured him, expression soft, the way you would look at the smallest kitten. "We cancelled the next two shows, so you can rest up and get better, Quinny baby."

When the bowl was empty, he set it aside, urging Quinn to fall back asleep on his shoulder. The bus was quieter with Bert's energy channelled solely on the recovery of the blond boy, a strange sense of peace they had never experienced before. Every failed attempt at cooking, every kiss, every hug and snuggle and assurance would by no means magic away the sickness, but he could damn well try.

*****************************************

Bert committed to his goal, acting as Quinn's personal caretaker on the road to recovery. He lay in his bunk when the sick man slept   , refusing to spend more than a moment away from him should his condition worsen somehow. He operated with a single thing in mind and showered the guitarist with attention.

"Quinny, I got your medication!"

"Quinny, if you're too sick for the next show, okay, we can cancel it. It's okay."

"Go back to sleep, Quinn-baby, you shouldn't be awake. Don't worry, I'll stay right here. Papa Bert is gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take care of you."

It was the night of what would have been the second show that Quinn smacked him over the head for calling himself papa, and pulled him in closer for "just another little bit" of cuddling. Pressed together in the damp heat on the bunk, Quinn's head on his shoulder, Bert waited for him to inevitably fall asleep first.

He checked his forehead, face nuzzled securely into the mass of blond hair.

"All better, Quinny baby." murmured Bert, shutting his eyes. For the first time in three days, he relaxed. "I told you I would take care of you."


End file.
